


All the King's Men

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Noir, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Terrorism, War, War Of The Five Kings, Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark has been in hiding as Alayne Stone for over a year.  One night she runs into Jon Snow, an old family friend now sworn to the service of Stannis Baratheon, the would-be King of Westeros.  Jon offers to deliver Sansa to safety but it comes at a price: the head of one Petyr Baelish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've got about half of this story written so far, so hopefully there won't be too long of a wait in-between updates. Please check out [my tumblr](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/) for extra pieces from this story, like pictures of different locations or fancasts. Thanks for reading : )

Sansa has only had one drink, already feeling unsteady in her heels, the summer heat making the fabric of her dress stick to her back. The doors to the patio have been left open, bringing in a sweet-smelling breeze from the garden. She steps outside to get some air, to have a moment of quiet away from the guests who ask about her, who want to meet Petyr’s new dark-haired protégée.

The din of the party behind her, the effects of her drink evaporate once she sees who is outside in a tailored summer suit and crisp dress shirt.

She locks eyes with him for a long moment, her mouth falling open at the sight of Jon Snow, a long, pink scar stretching across his neck. His gray eyes bore into hers and Sansa finally finds her voice.

“Jon,” she says quietly, checking over her shoulder to make sure that no one is listening to them. “It’s me, it’s Sansa.”

She hasn’t spoken that name in so long. It feels so sweet to say it out loud, to introduce herself as Sansa, sister to Robb and daughter of Ned and Catelyn, the girl who grew up in the city but always went home to Winterfell for the New Year.

“Sansa?” Jon says, his face lighting up. She can see the moment he recognizes her. “What are you doing here? Who are you with?”

Hurriedly looking around the patio, hoping that no one sees the pair of them standing so close, even if she’s just Alayne Stone, an underling to Petyr Baelish and no one important, she still takes care to usher him to a side path through the garden.

“No one knows who I really am,” she whispers, her arm slipping through his. 

Sansa notices the bulk of his arm next to hers, along with the strong frame of his shoulders and the sturdy appearance of his chest. With the scar on his throat and another, fainter one along his eye he is a far cry from the boy she grew up with—leaner, colder, perhaps, but there is still something in his gray eyes that makes her heart clench painfully.

“I live in the guest house, no one should be able to overhear us there.”

Jon follows her inside, the pair of them not fully relaxing until the door is locked behind her. Sansa leads him into the living room, away from any windows where the guests could see them.

Once they are alone he pulls her to him in a fierce hug.

“I thought you were dead,” he says. “I looked everywhere for you, for Bran and Arya and Rickon.”

Her face is buried against his neck, her check pressed against his jaw, the scent of him uniquely his own while still reminding her of home. Sansa wants this hug to never end. It is the first time in over a year that she’s been able to take comfort in someone without having to fear for herself, without having to pretend that she’s a fictional girl with a made up name.

“I don’t know what happened to them,” she says, that hollow, empty feeling she’s become so familiar with spreading inside her. “They could be alive—I hope they are.”

Jon pulls away slightly, his hand coming up to cup her cheek in a gesture that is almost intimate. They never were close growing up, not compared to Jon and Robb or even Jon and Arya, but Sansa leans into his touch all the same.

“Why didn’t you come to me? I’m working for Stannis—he could have protected you.”

“Petyr,” Sansa says, his very name sticking in her mouth. “If he finds out that I’ve talked to you, if he knows that you came here—“

She can already feel the panic rising in her chest, that harsh, choking feeling like an invisible hand is closing around her throat.

“Let me worry about him,” Jon says, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

Sansa feels tears spring to her eyes at that. “Stay here tonight,” she says, still holding his hand.

“Of course,” Jon replies.

\--

They lay on top of her duvet, her heels kicked off and his suit jacket and tie tossed on the brocade chair. There’s a wall of windows in her room but they face away from the main house, showing the gardens and, in the distance, the rocky shoreline of the Blackwater Rush.

Propped up on her elbow, Sansa says, “Do you need to be somewhere? Will Stannis notice you’re with me?”

Jon lies with his hands behind his head, his legs crossed at the ankle.

“No one else needs me right now,” he says, his head turned toward her. “Just you.”

She doesn’t miss that he has a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, the muzzle of it looking heavy and dangerous. Sansa wonders if working for Stannis is how Jon got the awful scar on his neck, the one that stretches the length of his throat, a stern contrast to his otherwise handsome features.

Jon asks how she ended up working for Petyr Baelish, a man with a very questionable business and a poor reputation for trustworthiness. Sansa tells him all, about her fears that she would be stuck with the Lannisters forever, always surrounded by guns for hire like the Hound, until Petyr dressed her up in a wig and a dress that had been uncomfortably revealing, passing her off as one of the many escorts who accompanied Tyrion Lannister.

“He _what?_ ” Jon asks, sitting up on the bed.

“I was only dressed like, like one of Tyrion’s women. Petyr didn’t make me do anything. I looked so different, I just walked out the morning after a party and none of them realized it was me.”

Reaching out, Jon touches a strand of her hair. “Is this a wig, too?”

Frowning, Sansa says, “No. I had to dye it just in case.”

“It looks…different. Not like the old Sansa.”

 _That’s the idea_ , she thinks, but at that moment she wants nothing more than to become the old Sansa, to live that life again.

He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger, his hands so much larger than hers, warmer, his touch practically radiating heat. Sansa finds herself taking shallow breaths as his fingers brush her collarbone. _This is Jon Snow_ , she reminds herself, but he is the first man she’s felt safe around since one of Joffrey’s men emptied a clip in her father’s chest, and it has been lonely, so lonely, and she just wants to be close to someone.

“Don’t leave,” she whispers, their faces within inches of each other. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light, almost obscuring the line of gray at the edge.

“I’m right here.”

They fall asleep like that, both of them still dressed, her head pillowed on Jon’s arm. Sansa wakes up with her back against his chest, his arm around her waist. The back of Jon’s hand just barely brushes the underside of her breast and she feels herself blush from head to toe once she realizes it. Sansa lies still even though she’s awake, taking in the feeling of his face pressed into her hair.

Growing up the two of them had never been close, but Jon had been like a part of their family from an early age. His mother had been a childhood friend of her father, and when Lyanna died the Stark family took him in, treating Jon like one of their own. By that time Sansa had been eight years old—too old to see him as a new brother when she’d had Robb for so many years. And now here he was, her not-a-brother, but someone Sansa had desperately missed all the same.

Hearing the sound of the back door opening downstairs, Sansa sits straight up in bed, doing her best to shake Jon awake.

His eyes fly open and she whispers quietly to him, “Go in the closet and shut the door. Someone’s here.”

From downstairs she hears, “Alayne? Are you up?”

It’s Mya Stone, one of Petyr’s assistants and one of the few people Sansa considers a friend. At the last minute her eyes fall on the suit jacket and tie that Jon left on the chair last night. Sansa shoves it in one of her drawers just as Mya appears in the doorframe of her bedroom.

“Did you just wake up?” she asks, her short black bob swinging as she walks.

“I overslept,” Sansa explains. “I need to get a shower and then I’m going into the city.”

“Petyr was looking for you last night, but it looks like you just had a little too much fun,” Mya says, sitting down on her bed and giving her a cheeky smile.

“Unzip me?” Sansa asks, moving her hair out of the way and turning her back to her friend.

Mya helps her out of her dress and she peels it off on the way to the bathroom, letting the garment fall to the floor. It’s not the type of look she would normally go for, with black feathers sewn onto the shoulders, but Alayne always wears dark colors. It helps her mentally separate the two people she’s become.

As Sansa turns the water on, she hears Mya call, “Let me know when you come down for breakfast, we can have coffee together.”

She waits until she hears Mya close the downstairs door that leads outside and then she goes to the closet, still in her slip.

“Sorry about that,” Sansa says.

“It’s okay. I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you in a couple of days once I’ve talked to Stannis.”

Jon finds a pen and paper on her nightstand and scribbles down a set of instructions. “Once I call you go to this address, but make sure that no one follows you.”

Grabbing her shoulders, he says, “I’m going to get you out of this, Sansa. I promise.”

He leans forward and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, his lips leaving a burning imprint on her skin, feeling momentarily dazed at the gesture.

“Go out the back door and take the right path through the garden, that’ll lead you away from the main house and there are enough trees that no one should see you.”

Jon gives her a quick smile, one side of his mouth creeping up more than the other, and then he’s gone.

\--

The Fisherman’s Wife is a bar just off the street of steel, an old pub that’s existed for over a century. Jon makes his way through the bar’s maze of back rooms and waits outside of a polished oak door, having learned that it isn’t necessary for him to knock, Lord Seaworth always knows who’s in his establishment from the moment they step inside.

Fishing in his pocket for his packet of Dornish cigarettes, Jon lights one and inhales the mixture of tobacco and cloves. Just as he’s taken his second drag the door opens.

“Lord Seaworth is ready for you.”

Jon guesses that the young man he’s facing is one of Davos Seaworth’s sons, by the looks of him, but not one he’s met before. He’s ushered in and shown a seat by the empty fireplace, leaving Jon to wonder if it ever gets cold enough in King’s Landing to need a real fire or if it’s merely for show. Everything in Lord Seaworth’s private office is well crafted, from the polished woodwork to the oil paintings of merchant ships, but the room feels more homey than imposing.

“Where did you go last night?” Davos says, coming around the corner and taking his usual armchair.

“I saw someone I knew,” Jon replies. He offers a cigarette to Davos, who accepts, holding it with his shortened fingers.

“Were they important enough to keep you from following Lothor Brune?”

“Absolutely,” Jon said, catching Davos’ attention. “This person also informed me that Baelish’s primary assistant is Mya Stone—it looks like Brune is well-trusted, but just an enforcer.”

“Who were you with?” Davos asks, his watery blue eyes trained on Jon.

“Sansa Stark.”

Lord Seaworth demands that Jon tell him everything from the beginning. He explains how he ran into Sansa outside, how Sansa escaped from the Lannisters with Baelish’s help by disguising herself as a whore, and how she’s been in hiding as Alayne Stone for over a year.

“I promised that I could help her,” Jon says seriously. “I believe in King Stannis. Am I wrong to do so?”

His weathered face set, Davos says, “No, I promise you that you’re not wrong. The King will hear of this.”

\--

Three days after seeing Jon at the party, Sansa gets a text from a blocked number saying to be at the agreed place by eleven the next morning. She dresses in her most plain clothing—Alayne always wears heels and silks and a full face of makeup, not a very practical look if there’s a chance she’ll have to run through the alleyways of King’s Landing.

With her sunglasses and simple ponytail she looks just like anyone else walking the streets of the capital. Checking behind her, Sansa makes sure that no one is following her before she approaches the well-kept apartment building.

Sansa presses the button for apartment 15A, announcing herself as “Jeyne” just as Jon had instructed. She’s buzzed in. She quickly finds herself facing a sleek gray front door with the apartment number tacked on in silver lettering. The door opens while her hand is raised in mid-air, a weathered face with pale blue eyes starring back at her before she’s even had a chance to knock.

“Jeyne,” she says, more of a password than a name.

He nods and lets her inside, quickly closing the door behind her and taking a moment to fasten all the extra locks and deadbolts. Once he’s satisfied the man turns around to look at her, bearded with streaks of gray in his sandy brown hair, quite plainly curious and wearing an earnest expression that immediately jogs Sansa’s memory.

“Lord Davos,” she says, realizing the identity of the man in front of her.

He smiles. “That’s the one. And you would be Sansa Stark.”

It is still strange to hear her name spoken out loud, to be called by something other than Alayne. Hearing it makes her smile.

She follows Lord Davos into the living room. Sansa is surprised to see Jon seated at the low-backed, slate-gray couch—she hadn’t known if he would be here or not. Secretly, Sansa had been hoping that she would get a chance to see Jon Snow again.

As strange as it is to see Jon in another button-down, she has to admit that the contrast between his scars and his clean, pressed appearance only makes him seem more mysterious. Sansa sits next to him and crosses her legs, then uncrosses them, her pulse increasing because she is really here—she is about to betray Petyr Baelish to King Stannis and the weight of that settles heavily on her chest.

Lord Seaworth settles in the chair across form them, light from the frosted glass windows making him look even older.

“Jon tells me that you’ve been in hiding under an alias,” he begins, his weathered hands folded in his lap. “If you want Baelish’s actions brought to justice then we’re going to need you to keep living as Alayne Stone—just for the time being.”

Lord Davos holds up his hands, as if he’s trying to assure her from across the room.

“We need concrete evidence of what he’s done,” he explains. “Hard drives, files, any important documents that you can find.”

“Petyr’s very careful,” Sansa warns. “I can get you records but how am I supposed to know what’s incriminating? You’ll never find a smoking gun on Petyr Baelish.”

“We need a copy of his entire hard drive,” Jon says. “If you can get into his office I can have Sam show you how to save all his information. To catch Baelish we’ll have to look through the details: records of accounts, invoices, billing statements.”

“I understand.”

Lord Seaworth leans forward, his tone gravely serious.

“But most importantly you need to be careful. Petyr has protected you because you’re useful to him, but if he even suspects you of something he will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary.”

“I can teach you how to shoot, if you want,” Jon offers.

Her hands nervously digging into the fabric of the couch, Sansa says, “I’d like that.”

\--

Standing on the sidewalk, Sansa looks up at the red brick building complete with a green sign that reads Tarly Securities. Jon meets her eyes and she nods, following him inside as they pass a mousey receptionist who greets him by name before taking the elevator to the top floor.

When they step outside the elevator they are greeted with two large, heavily framed canvases. One depicts the Red Mountains of the Reach, with soft grasses and sharp peaks brushed in oil paint, while the other is an image of House Tarly’s ancestral sigil, a red huntsman on a green field.

Sansa looks to the paintings before raising her eyebrows at Jon.

He chuckles. “Lord Randal takes the public image of his house quite seriously.”

They pass several large offices until reaching one with the blinds closed over its glass walls. Jon knocks on the door before opening it himself, greeting the man behind the ornate, hard wood desk with warmth.

“This is Sam Tarly, and old friend of mine from the Rangers,” Jon explains.

“Nice to meet you,” Sansa says, unsure if she should introduce herself as Sansa or Alayne.

Sensing her uncertainty, Sam smiles at her and says, “It’s alright, I know who you really are.”

Relieved, she and Jon each take one of the free armchairs.

Sam wastes no time in getting to business. 

Opening a drawer in his desk, he says, “Jon tells me you need to make a copy of an entire hard drive.”

“Here,” Sam says, handing her what looks like two black boxes. “These are terabyte external hard drives. For all the data on Baelish’s computer it would be safer to have more than one, but the ones I’ve provided you are special. Your average external hard drive will back up your information, but for security reasons these devices can connect to a secure website where your data will be stored while it’s being updated here.”

Seeing Sansa’s blank expression, he explains, “It means that, even if the device is broken or stolen right after you’ve gotten the data you’ll still have a copy of everything in the cloud.”

“Did you invent this?” Jon asks.

Sam nods proudly.

“That’s brilliant,” Jon replies.

“But don’t forget, someone like Baelish is more than likely going to have an access code or other security measures. It’s impossible to know what those might be—I’m guessing you’ll have to enter a security code but it could be something really specific like, every time someone saves something from his computer he gets a text message, something like that.”

“But how do I figure out his code?” Sansa asks. “It could be anything.”

Sam shrugs helplessly. “You know him better than we do. The only way to know for sure is to watch him save one of his files onto a flash drive, then you would know what kind of security features he has in place, but I doubt Petyr Baelish is going to invite you into his office to look over his shoulder while he’s working.”

Before the conversation can continue the three of them hear a large, rumbling _boom_ that shakes the frame of the building. Sansa is torn from her seat, by Jon, she realizes, who is pressing her to the floor, his body covering hers.

“What the bloody hell,” she hears Sam mutter. He, too, follows Jon’s example and crawls underneath his desk. “Was that an earthquake?”

Jon army-crawls to the floor-length windows, pushing the blinds apart just enough to see outside. Sam has a corner office, giving him a high, clear view of the city.

“Fuck,” he swears. Jon gets to his feet and pulls the blinds up, revealing the skyline of King’s Landing and the plume of thick, dark smoke rising in the sky, filling the air with dust and debris.

“That’s wasn’t an earthquake,” Jon says. “That was a bomb.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see my picspam for Petyr's gardens [here](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/90467802712/all-the-kings-men-locations-petyrs-gardens) and my fancast for this fic's version of Jon Snow [here](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/90579367072/all-the-kings-men-fancast-daniel-day-lewis-as). For other tidbits you can always check out [my tumblr](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This chapter has not been to a beta so any mistakes are mine.

Once Jon makes a call to Lord Davos they leave Tarly Securities within five minutes, a shiny black escalade waiting directly outside the front of the entrance. His arm around her, Jon makes sure that Sansa is inside first, the door barely closed behind them before the driver pulls into the Merchant District’s thick traffic.

The driver introduces himself as Grenn, explaining what happened while they were in Sam’s office.

“The navy yard in the harbor was attacked,” Grenn says, swerving the large car across three lanes of traffic, the force of the turn pressing Sansa into Jon’s side.

Reaching between them, she takes his hand, feeling reassured when Jon laces his fingers between hers and squeezes her hand reassuringly. 

“This wasn’t us—do they know who did it?”

“It’s Euron Greyjoy. The official word from the Red Keep is that it was a terrorist attack from the Targaryen woman, but no one in the press believes that. Greyjoy warships have been spotted all over the coastline for the past week. They just don’t want to admit that King Tommen can’t fight against a clear and obvious threat.”

Sansa doesn’t ask where Grenn is taking them. She knows that later she will have to call Petyr and she’s found that it’s better to not know the details of what she’s trying to cover up. Lies come more easily to Sansa when she can pretend that they’re the truth.

Once they get out of the car Jon and Grenn flank her on either side, escorting her into the back entrance of what she thinks is a bar. Jon’s hand on the small of her back, Sansa climbs two flights of stairs until the three of them file inside a plush office. For the second time that day Sansa sees Lord Davos’s concerned, weary expression, his one unmarred hand clutching a felt bag around his neck.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Lord Seaworth says. “Jon, you need to start working with Sansa at the firing range. Today reminded me of how vulnerable we really are.”

Jon nods in agreement. Sansa isn’t sure if she feels more or less anxious at the thought of learning to use a handgun, but if Jon will be the one teaching her then she’s sure it’s the right thing to do.

“I have to get back,” Sansa says. “Petyr will want to know where I’ve been.”

“Do you feel safe enough to travel by yourself?” Lord Davos asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

In truth it takes three times longer than usual for Sansa to drive from the Merchant District of King’s Landing to Petyr’s manse outside the city. The number of people on the roads leads Sansa to believe that everyone is afraid to be in the capital, and for good reason. With Euron Greyjoy attacking King’s Landing it makes good sense to leave. Twelve-year-old King Tommen is believed by most in Westeros to be a weak monarch, and with his grandfather dead and Queen Cersei ruling from the Red Keep Sansa wonders just how bad things will get with the Greyjoys.

_I have no choice but to trust in Stannis_ , she realizes.

\--

By the time she reaches Petyr’s home it is past dark. She finds Mya in the more casual den watching the TV news, a glass of Dornish red in her hand.

“Where’s Petyr?” Sansa asks.

“He’s on the phone with someone. Were you in the city when this happened?”

Mya points to the news, which continues to show clips of footage displaying the tower of smoke billowing out of the navy yard, along with the faces of muted commentators.

“Yeah, I had no clue what was going on at first. Did Petyr know this was going to happen?” she asks.

“There had been some talk about a possible attack from the Ironborn, but no one expected it so soon. Last we heard they were still fighting Stannis in the north and raiding the Shield Islands.”

Hearing the few words about Stannis Baratheon and his northern campaign sparks Sansa’s attention. There wasn’t much news coming south of the Neck, but from what Sansa had overheard the Bolton forces holding Winterfell had been met with opposition from every turn—especially if Jon’s Rangers had sided with Stannis. As a child Sansa had heard stories of the fabled Night’s Watch of the far north, it’s modern equivalent being the Rangers that kept the peace in the most distant parts of the land beyond the Wall, and she had been both impressed and concerned when Jon Snow had left home to join them at eighteen.

Sansa goes to Petyr’s office, knocking softly on the doorframe before poking her head inside.

Still on the phone, he motions for her to enter. She takes a seat on the sage green chaise just as Petyr finishes up his phone call.

Rising from his desk, he walks behind the backrest of the chaise, his hands resting on Sansa’s shoulders and giving them a light squeeze before he takes to his favorite armchair. Petyr’s office is outfitted with a large corner desk and a comfortable sitting area. In lieu of pictures or decorations the room features a wall of windows, giving them a clear view of the gardens and the cliffs that drop off into the Blackwater Rush.

“I’m glad to see you safely home,” he says, his brown eyes settling on her. “I should have warned you that the Ironborn were thinking of acting, but I doubted they would do anything so dramatic as attack a navy yard.”

“Will this be good for us?” Sansa asks, wondering how the actions of Euron Greyjoy will affect Petyr’s plans.

“Of course,” Petyr replies. “I couldn’t have asked for a more convenient distraction.”

“Who were you speaking with?”

Sansa looks down at her nails, trying to appear uninterested when, in truth, she means to remember every detail of this conversation.

“Robert’s school,” he says tiredly. “I called as soon as I heard of what had happened in King’s Landing, I must appear as the caring stepfather, you understand.”

“I’ll go to visit him,” Sansa offers. 

Robert Arryn may not know he’s her cousin, but she can’t help feeling pity for the boy. With both his parents dead and Petyr Baelish as his only guardian Sansa had initially been worried to hear that he’d been sent to a boarding school in the capital. The Citadel’s prestigious boys’ academy was only a half hour’s drive from Petyr’s home and Robert visited most weekends.

Smiling at her, Petyr says, “How sweet of you, Alayne. It is late. Come kiss your father goodnight.”

Trying her best to hide her disgust, Sansa stands by his chair and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Her walk to the guesthouse seems to calm her, settling the queasy, uncomfortable feeling she always gets in her stomach when Petyr presses himself on her. Sansa has been playing coy with him for the past year and he has tolerated it, but only a fool would think that Baelish had no plans to take things further. For a long time Sansa had hoped that her brother Robb would rescue her from the Lannisters and Lord Tryion’s guilty stares. Petyr had saved her from all of that, but now she realizes that no man, however they may seem, will be able to truly protect her.

_And now I must place all my hopes on Stannis saving me_ , she thinks bitterly. At the same time a voice pushes forward from the back of her head, reminding Sansa of Jon Snow and his offer to take her to the shooting range.

Before she had left The Fisherman’s Wife Jon had given her a cell phone with the numbers of himself, Lord Davos, and Sam Tarly programmed into it.

“Don’t hesitate to call me,” he’d assured her, hugging her close one last time before she’d gotten in her car to drive out of the city.

Once she’s inside the guesthouse Sansa pulls the phone from her purse and selects the contact that was simply labeled _J_. She sends him a short text asking when they can meet for target practice, wondering if Jon would think differently of her for contacting him so quickly, but where else can she turn?

As she prepares for bed Sansa wonders if the funny, bubbly excitement she feels in her stomach every time she sees Jon is just happiness at seeing an old friend or if it’s something else. In her darkened bedroom she throws on an oversized T-shirt and climbs into bed. It isn’t the sort of thing that Alayne would wear, but she and Arya always wore them growing up, or in the winter they would sleep in hand-me-down flannel shirts that used to belong to her brothers.

The screen of her cell phone brightens and Sansa quickly grabs it. She feels her pulse speed up when she reads Jon’s message, like her heart is fluttering inside her ribcage at seeing a few words on the tiny screen. His response specifies where and when they should meet, his quick reply making her smile into her pillow.

Sansa rolls onto her stomach, her palm underneath her chin, thinking about the way Jon’s first instinct in Sam’s office had been to protect her. She thought of how it had felt to be pinned beneath him on the floor, his chest flush with her own. Pulling the covers over herself, Sansa wonders what the scar on Jon’s neck would feel like beneath the pads of her fingertips, whether it would feel ragged along the edges or smooth, a mark from an even, clean wound.

Shifting her legs restlessly, Sansa falls asleep imagining what it would feel like to touch Jon Snow.

\--

The Citadel’s boys’ academy is in a historic part of King’s Landing, its entrance across from the entrance to the Sept of Baelor, the place where Joffrey took her father’s life. It is painful for Sansa to look at the sept, to remember what it felt like to see her father collapse to the floor, the damage to his body beyond repair—but she is not Sansa right now. She is Alayne Stone, illegitimate daughter and assistant to Petyr Baelish and sometimes caretaker for Robert Arryn.

She called ahead with the Maestors to make sure that Robert would have time to see her. They must have mentioned her arrival to the little lord, because he is waiting for her just inside the entrance, running to her side and greeting her excitedly.

“Alayne! I’ve missed you. Come with me—I must show you everything.”

Robert is nearing ten years old but he is small for his age and practically a head shorter than the other boys at the academy. Sansa follows him through the corridors, her heels clicking on the slick marble flooring, listening while Robert tells her about his classmates and which Maestors are kind and which ones are old and boring.

It’s at these moments when Sansa can forget how trying Robert can be. In his excitement with her visit he is pleasant and eager to please her, hoping that she’ll stay longer or take him home to see Petyr.

“I’m sorry sweetling, but Petyr is very busy right now. He wanted to bring you home but the Maestors said you have examinations soon,” Sansa says, smoothing Robert’s thin hair out of his eyes.

“I don’t want to take my stupid exams. I want to go home.”

His lip trembles and Sansa isn’t sure if he’s about to cry or if one of his fits is upon them. Looking around for a private place to sit down, Sansa places her arm around Robert’s shoulders and leads them into a deserted courtyard. Every room in the boys’ academy is a beautiful display of architecture, and the courtyard is no exception, with arching stonework and tiled mosaics on the walls.

“Oh, Robert, look at the fish,” she says, pointing to the multi-tiered brick fountain in the center of the courtyard. Bright yellow fish with wispy fins swim in the bottom basin of the fountain, darting around beneath the rippling surface of the water.

“I don’t care about fish, Alayne. I don’t want to be at the school anymore,” Robert says, crossing his arms.

“Don’t you want to be a lord one day, like your father?” Sansa asks. “All the high lords must receive a good education, and there is no where better for you to learn everything you’ll need to know.”

“I suppose,” he says, conceding for the moment. 

Giving him a quick hug, Sansa offers, “How about you come home for a visit this weekend, hmm? How would you like that?”

“Yes—of course I’d like it!”

Sansa does her best to keep Robert in a good mood for the rest of her visit, assuring him that he will be able to leave the academy for the weekend and giving him a package of his favorite sweets before she leaves. She spoils him terribly, but it is important for Robert to like Alayne Stone since his care is one of her primary duties as Petyr’s assistant.

Sansa leaves the boys’ academy and walks several blocks before she finds a coffee shop with a public restroom. She changes out of her heels and silk blouse for something more practical, pulling her hair back but still checking her face in the mirror before she leaves. A shallow, silly part of her wants to look pretty for Jon, hopes that he’s going through the same nervous thoughts as her, even while a more cynical voice in the back of her head insists that Jon couldn’t be interested in a girl like her. 

Once her transformation from Alayne to Sansa is complete she finds the address Jon gave her, spotting him in his jeans and black button-down outside the entrance.

Smiling at her, Jon asks, “You ready?”

Sansa nods and follows him inside. They’re given a pair of safety glasses and what looks like earmuffs without the fuzz. They enter the range and Jon offers her a small handgun that could easily be concealed in a purse or coat pocket.

“It’s a .22,” he explains. “It’s good for practice. You’re petite so you don’t want anything too big.”

“How does it work?”

Jon shows her how to load the handgun, explaining that it’s a semi-automatic and showing her how to turn the safety on and off. They both put on their ear coverings and he stands behind her, arranging her body so she’s holding the handgun correctly. Sansa feels her breathing become more shallow when Jon places his arms around her, arranging her grip on the weapon and making her feel a tingling rush underneath her skin that has nothing to do with the loaded firearm in her hands.

She braces herself for the recoil and fires her first round, tearing a hole through the target. Sansa doesn’t think she’ll be winning shooting competitions anytime soon, but with each successive attempt she feels more comfortable with the weapon in her hands.

The clip empty, Sansa removes her ear covers and looks to Jon.

“How’d I do?”

One part of his mouth turned up more than the other, he says, “Much better than Sam the first time he went shooting. He dropped the gun and it went off.”

Jon shakes his head as if his friend’s mistake is merely an amusing story and not a near-fatal accident.

A bit shyly, she asks if she can watch him shoot. He says, “Of course.”

Watching Jon fire at the target isn’t merely an excuse to stare at the firm line of his shoulders, it’s also an opportunity to see how a gun is properly fired, to watch someone practice with superior form and aim. Sansa is impressed with how accurately Jon hits the mark. If he can teach her to shoot like that then she won’t have to worry about Cersei Lannister’s hired thugs or Petyr’s enforcer, Lothar Brune.

She looks down at the .22 in her hand and wishes that everything hadn’t come to this. The idea of shooting someone is still highly off-putting to her—Sansa remembers seeing her father’s unconscious form bleed out in front of the sept—but she can’t afford to follow her principles, not now.

After they’ve finished Jon walks with her back to her car. It’s out of the way for him but he assures Sansa that he doesn’t mind, that it makes him feel better to know that she won’t be walking around the capital alone where anything could happen.

“Do you know what’s happening with Stannis in the north?” she asks quietly, the pair of them walking along a less crowded side street.

Jon glances around before answering. “The Boltons are holed up in Winterfell, but they won’t last much longer. Stannis has people inside. The Rangers are helping him, and all the old families, even the mountain clans. No one wants to see Roose Bolton as Warden of the North.”

They reach Visenya’s Hill and, despite being surrounded by high rises, the view of the rest of the city is uniquely beautiful. Sansa’s gaze falls to the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill and the moment turns sour, making her bite her lip before she turns to Jon.

“What about the Queen?” she asks.

Sensing her worry, he puts his hand on her arm to reassure her, the two of them standing closer together than before.

“The attack from the Ironborn couldn’t have come at a better time,” Jon says. “The Lannisters don’t have the men to fight Stannis and protect King’s Landing at the same time, especially with winter about to arrive in the north. The Tyrells are the only thing keeping the crown afloat right now, but we both know how quickly those things can change.”

Hearing Jon’s words alleviates some of Sansa’s fears. He walks with her all the way to the parking garage where her black Audi is parked, the line of his mouth turned into a frown. 

“You still need to be careful,” Jon warns her. “Not just of Baelish or the Lannisters, but the Boltons too. They’re desperate. If they find out where you are they could try to come after you. Just promise me that you’ll try to stay safe.”

Taking in his concerned expression, Sansa feels a sinuous, heady warmth in her limbs at Jon’s words. She should be scared, any sane person would be frightened of the stories told about Ramsey Bolton, but mostly she feels pleased that Jon cares for her.

Before she can loose her nerve, Sansa gives him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I promise I’ll stay safe,” she says, getting into her car before Jon can notice the flame-red flush in her cheeks.

\--

Surveying Petyr’s office, Sansa notes that it’s neat as a pin, with a computer monitor, a notepad and a single fountain pen on his desk. She makes sure to get a good look at everything before she sits down, not wanting to accidentally displace anything and make him suspicious. 

Her trip to see Robert had given Sansa an idea, a perfectly believable reason to need the security code for Petyr’s computer. She had to send a request form to the academy whenever Robert came home for the weekend and the form she needed, with all the necessary information already filled out, was saved on Petyr’s hard drive. Sansa could always say that she was saving the document to her flash drive so that when Robert wanted to visit she wouldn’t have to go to Petyr’s office every time to send it.

She had already plugged in the external hard drive but it was out of site. The tower for Petyr’s computer was inside its own cabinet, one of the design features that kept his desk looking so clean and seamless.

Sansa pulls out her cell phone and calls Mya, sitting through only two rings before her friend picks up.

“Mya, I’ve got a quick question.”

“Hey, no problem. What do you need?”

She feels momentarily guilty for lying to her friend, but Sansa promises to herself that she won’t let Stannis Baratheon or anyone else go after Mya Stone in the courts, not when Mya’s the one who’ll make all this possible.

“Do you know the security code to Petyr’s computer? I’m trying to save a form so I can send it to Robert’s school, it’s so he can come home this weekend,” she says, holding her breath.

“Oh, sure. It’s 9972CAT.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open but she recovers quickly, thanking Mya for her help before ending the call.

_Cat,_ she thinks. _For my mother._

Plugging in the code, Sansa watches as the percentage bar increases little by little until she has saved all the data on Petyr’s computer. It takes up the better of two external hard drives. She makes sure to leave everything just the way it should be in Petyr’s office, she even puts his chair in the same position she found it in before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

It isn’t until she reaches the guesthouse that Sansa feels a sense of relief. Even if something happens to her, or if the external hard drives are damaged or stolen, Jon and Lord Davos will still have all the information.

_I’ve got you, Petyr,_ Sansa thinks. She takes a series of deep, long breaths before calling the number Jon programmed into her phone.

“Lord Seaworth? Yes, this is she. I need to meet with you.”

\--

They meet at The Fisherman’s Wife, with Sansa using the back entrance, double and triple checking that she has both external hard drives before being let in to see Lord Davos.

Jon is there as well, his gray sport coat thrown over the back of his chair, his blue tie loosened. Seeing his rolled-up shirtsleeves, she wonders where he was before their meeting.

“Can I get you a drink?” Lord Seaworth asks, holding up an already opened bottle of wine.

“That would be lovely,” Sansa replies, her cotton sundress sticking to her legs in the humidity.

The windows have been opened to let in the breeze but the air feels thick and oppressive against her skin, the type of weather that precedes a summer shower. The glass of chilled wine is a relief. Sansa opens her bag and takes out the hard drives, handing them to Lord Davos, glad to finally turn the information over.

“Excellent,” he says. “Stannis will be very pleased to hear of this, my lady.”

“Can you tell me what’s happening in the north?” Sansa asks.

Davos’ expression turns more serious. “They’ve had some nasty weather above the Neck, as strange as it sounds winter will be here soon, but the king has found a way to use it to his advantage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had control of the castle in a few weeks time. Until then you will continue to stay with Baelish.”

Sansa nearly drops her wineglass. “Stay with Petyr? But I’ve given you everything you need. He’s been planning a match for me—a match to Harry Hardyng of the Vale—if I stay he could marry me off and there would be nothing I could do about it.”

Jon watches her very closely, his jaw clenched and his glass of wine untouched. She wonders if the possibility of her marrying someone else bothers him at all.

“We just need you to go through the motions,” Lord Seaworth pleads. “If Littlefinger tries anything sneaky then leave straight away. Take whatever you need and come here. As soon as Stannis has control of Winterfell we will bring you home, you have my word.”

Their meeting ends soon after that. Sansa promises to give them reports on Baelish for the time being, though for anonymity’s sake she will report to Jon. The Fisherman’s Wife is known to belong to Lord Seaworth but there are few in the capital that could pick out Jon Snow, the adopted son of Eddard Stark and Lord of the Gift.

When they leave Lord Davos’ office Jon asks her if she’s all right.

“I’m fine,” she answers, the both of them aware of her lie. 

Sansa crosses her arms and makes to leave but he reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, almost as if he’s coaxing a reluctant animal.

“Here, lets talk for a second,” Jon says, leading her several doors down the hall to an unused office.

Closing the door behind them, he asks, “Why are you afraid of Littlefinger? Has Baelish tried to hurt you?”

Relaxing her posture, Sansa admits, “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t trust him. I wish that—I wish that I could stay with you instead.”

The look on Jon’s face tells her everything. He glances down, color rising in his cheeks while he says, “I wouldn’t be there all the time. What if someone came there to hurt you and I couldn’t protect you—“

Sansa steps forward and kisses him, his height forcing her to stand on the tips of her toes. Jon’s hesitates for a moment but then he cups her face, drawing her closer and pressing his lips to hers, circling a strand of her hair around his finger.

Jon’s arms come around her waist, tugging her closer and making her spine tingle in a way that reminds her of the first step into a warm bath.

“San,” he moans, her hands exploring the planes of his chest and untucking his shirt so she can lift the hem and feel along his back.

Jon pushes her toward the desk, his hand curving under her ass and settling her on top of it. Sansa instinctively widens her legs, shivering at the feeling of his lips along her jaw, neck, and collarbone. She drags her fingers through his hair, tugging at it and sighing into his mouth, loving the feeling of his tongue against hers.

The only man to kiss her in the past year had been Petyr Baelish, who always seemed to leave her feeling unclean and confused when he’d force her to give him a peck on the cheek. Jon drives any such thoughts from her mind, showing Sansa what it’s like to be properly kissed.

She curls her foot around the back of his leg, feeling his hips press into hers, a thick, whirling heat curling in her belly. Jon holds her hips in his hands, touching her sides, the small of her back, only just brushing the underside of her breasts. Sansa takes his hand and places it over her breast, taking in his mussed hair and the blatant look of desire on his face. He inches down the straps of her sundress while she undoes the buttons on his shirt, the pair of them breathing heavily.

One of her heels falls off but she doesn’t care. Pushing his shirt off his shoulders, Sansa feels the cords of sinew and muscle in his chest, her head falling back when Jon moves her bra aside and pinches her nipples.

Leaning down, he kisses her breasts but the loss of friction between their hips makes Sansa restless. She pulls his mouth to hers, savoring the feeling of their naked chests pressed against one another, her blood running hot beneath her skin.

They continue to kiss and hold each other, her hair becoming a tangled mess. She tries to come up with the words to tell him how perfect this feels, how much she’s wanted to be held by someone that truly cares for her, but Sansa can’t think of what to say. She can only hold him close and shudder beneath his lips while he kisses a bruise onto her neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I wanted to finish this story in four chapters, but I think it's going to be longer than that. I'm not sure how long, especially since I won't have as much time for fandom stuff starting in August, so we'll see.
> 
> Here are some other location posts and fancast that I shared on my tumblr: [Jon's apartment](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/90677699357/all-the-kings-men-locations-jons-apartment), [Stannis Baratheon fancast](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/90677981292/all-the-kings-men-fancast-clint-eastwood-as), [Euron Greyjoy fancast](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/91058867722/all-the-kings-men-fancast-mads-mikkelsen-as), and a [Sansa fancast.](http://lunaplath.tumblr.com/post/91089840692/all-the-kings-men-fancast-lily-cole-as-sansa)

Sansa enters the coffee shop off of Snowbelly Row, making for the counter while discretely looking over the room out of the corner of her eye. Jon is absorbed in a book and already seated at an out of the way booth, though she’s sure he’s watching the other patrons just as closely as she is.

She orders a latte with Dornish cinnamon and, once she has her drink, sits down across from Jon in the little booth. Black and white photographs of the city adorn the walls, including one of King Robert and Queen Cersei on their wedding day, the pair of them holding hands outside the Sept of Baelor. It’s a print that she’s seen reproduced before and it makes Sansa wonder just how different their lives would all be if that marriage had worked out for the better.

The two of them easily blend in with the other customers. One of Sansa’s hands is in her lap, the other is wrapped around her cup of coffee, and she feels a streak of warmth creep up her spine when Jon finds her hand under the table. His fingers dance over the inside of her palm, making her skin shiver and tingle with heat.

“Mm, hi,” she says, lacing her fingers with his.

Jon gives her a look that reminds her of the cat who caught the canary.

“You look nice,” he says, his gray eyes sweeping over her.

Sansa is here on official business, she has information about Lord Petyr to share, though with Jon as her contact they often find themselves preoccupied with activities that extend beyond professionalism. She prefers it that way, truthfully. For the past few weeks Sansa has found herself looking forward to the occasions when they could meet up, not only because she was helping to bring down a man that was certainly corrupt and dangerous, but also because it gives them an opportunity to be alone together.

Mya had even asked why she seemed so cheerful and she had to make up some excuse about how she liked the changing of the seasons. Autumn has truly arrived in the capital, bringing with it fresh harvest apples from the Vale and a cool breeze that reminds Sansa of the bracing winds of the north. It’s entirely too warm in King’s Landing to really feel like home, she’s heard that the lands around Winterfell have already had their first real snowstorm, and she dreams that in a few months time she and Jon will be above the Neck in her family’s castle with snow piling up outside the walls.

“Petyr’s been meeting with the other Vale lords,” Sansa shares, feeling her knee bump his under the table.

“What is he scheming now?” Jon asks, his hand resting on her thigh, skimming over her jeans to rest just above her knee.

This little dance of theirs always makes her anxious to get him alone. Out in public, in teashops or on the streets of the Merchant District, they are vulnerable. As remote as it is, there is always the possibility that someone could recognize her or Jon and then where would they be? The battle for Winterfell is still ongoing even if Stannis’ victory draws closer, and if anyone were to discover that Petyr Baelish had been harboring Sansa Stark, the fugitive rebel princess of the north, then their lives could become very dangerous.

“He’s still trying to arrange a match between myself and Harold Hardyng,” Sansa says, biting her lower lip in worry. “Harry’s guardian is the Lady Anya Waynwood. Petyr means to buy her off with a dowry—their house is in deep financial troubles and he thinks that she would accept a marriage to his bastard daughter if enough money were involved.”

“There is no Alayne Stone,” Jon says, his eyes burning fiercely. “Only you, only Sansa.”

His certainty comforts her. For so long she has been required to hide herself, to pretend that Petyr is her father even in her own thoughts, and to be Sansa Stark again is the sweetest gift she could ever receive.

Tired of restraining herself for the sake of decency, she asks “Can we go?”

“Of course.”

Jon holds open the door of the coffee shop for her, the two of them making for his apartment in a quiet neighborhood near the Hook on the slope of Aegon’s High Hill. 

They don’t hold hands, not in such a public place, but once they arrive at the elevator in Jon’s apartment he draws her up to him and kisses her, his lips parting as his tongue finds hers. Sansa feels all her breath escape as she’s pressed to the slick wall of the elevator, her lipstick completely smudged, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with Jon and not get out for several hours.

The elevator chimes and they separate for the moment, the pair of them looking positively disheveled. Sansa has to take a few deep breaths before she can grasp her bearings, lightheaded as she is. Jon’s arm comes around her waist and he lets them in, but she has only taken two steps into the apartment before he grabs her by the arm and shoves her behind him.

Everything happens very quickly. Peering over his shoulder, Sansa sees two men standing in the living room. Before she can even get a good look at either of them Jon has drawn his handgun and fired, the sound of it so loud that it renders her momentarily deaf, her ears ringing as Jon wrestles the other man to the ground.

Her hands shake as she scrambles for the .22 in her handbag, frantically searching for it while one man bleeds out on the rug and another fights with Jon. The stranger smashes Jon’s head against the floor, the impact leaving a bloody imprint on the hardwood, until Jon twists his arm around and slashes at his attacker. The man rolls off of Jon and Sansa is horrified to see an ink pen sticking out of his throat, a jagged wound leaking blood all down his front.

It takes an eternity but Sansa finally closes her hand around the handle of her gun. Her breathing coming in short, panicked bursts, she pulls back the slide and remembers to brace herself before firing four rounds into the stranger in front of her. He collapses onto the floor, slumping down face-first.

Jon staggers to his feet, his face a mess, but he doesn’t even pause before he’s dragging her out the door and down the empty hall. In shock as she is, Sansa follows, the gun still in her had as she’s ushered into the lesser-used stairwell.

“Are you alright?” he asks, wiping blood out of his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

They race down the stairs at a dizzying pace, his hand tightly clutching hers. It takes her a moment to realize that he asked her a question.

“I’m not hurt,” she says. “But Jon, your face—“

“Come on,” he says, opening the door to the street.

Jon pulls her into the alleyway, the both of them running, darting around trashcans and trying not to look behind them. They run until breathing is practically painful and then Jon pulls them behind a dumpster, even now shielding her body while he calls Grenn and tells him to be at the agreed-upon location as fast as possible.

They both take a moment to catch their breath and Sansa removes her scarf, using it to wipe the blood off of Jon’s face. He holds perfectly still and she can tell that he’s in a lot of pain, especially when he gives a slight wince while she pats at the cut along his temple, doing her best to be careful.

“It looks worse than it is,” he says, but Sansa hushes him before he can say anything else.

Grenn is there faster than she ever would have expected. They hear the squealing tires of the Escalade before they see it, giving Jon a moment to check the sidewalk for onlookers before he pulls her into the street. They pile in the car and Grenn has already started driving before Jon fully closes the door.

“Seven hells,” Grenn swears, looking at Jon in his rear-view mirror. “What happened?”

Pressing Sansa’s scarf to his wound, Jon says, “Just drive.”

\--

Sansa recognizes that they have entered one of the wealthiest districts in King’s Landing, with manses and posh apartment buildings lining the street, making her increasingly nervous that someone will recognize her the moment they step out of the car. But Grenn steers the overlarge vehicle into a parking deck that’s below an apartment building, he has to swipe several cards and enter pin numbers for them to get in, and then they’re rushing out of the car and into a very finely decorated elevator.

“Where are we going?” she asks, looking to Jon. His bleeding has soaked through the fabric of her scarf, leaving an awful-looking stain that only makes her worry for him.

“Sam’s,” he says, holding onto the railing of the elevator for balance.

Sansa puts her arm around him, trying to steady Jon as they exit the elevator and walk down a lushly carpeted corridor. The wallpaper has a subtle brocade pattern in hues of ivory and pale gold, reminding Sansa of the décor in Queen Cersei’s solar in the Red Keep, with an ornate, punched-tin ceiling that looks original.

“Did Sam pick this place?” she asks, thinking that this apartment building does not fit Sam Tarly, bookish computer expert and lackluster dresser.

Sam opens the door before they have a chance to knock, seeing them in and locking a series of chains and deadbolts once he closes the door.

“Gods, Jon, are you alright?” he asks, his moon-shaped face contorted with worry.

“I’m fine,” Jon says tersely. “I just need some ice.”

Sansa enters the kitchen straight away, opening the freezer and scooping handfuls of ice into a dishtowel that’s hung over the handle of the stainless steel oven. She returns to the living room and steers Jon into a chair.

“Sit down,” she tells him. “And don’t talk, you need to rest.”

He gives her that crooked smile that always makes her stomach flip.

“As my lady commands,” he says, sitting still while she wipes away the last of the blood with a damp cloth and presses the bundle of ice to his forehead.

Grenn has stepped into the other room to call Lord Davos while Sam sits down in an armchair, his forearms resting on his knees, clearly shaken by Jon’s appearance.

“What happened?” Sam asks. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” Jon retorts. “I fell down the stairs.”

“Dammit, it’s not funny!”

“There were some hired thugs waiting at my apartment. Once they saw who I was with I couldn’t risk letting them live. I shot one of them but the second one grabbed me before I could get him in range. He was about a head taller than me, we fought but now he’s dead too. This,” he said pointing to his head. “Looks bad but head wounds always do. It’s shallow, it’ll be alright.”

Sam seems to accept this explanation before quickly looking up. “Sansa, I haven’t even asked if you’re alright as well.”

“I’m fine,” she replies. “Really. I was so surprised I barely realized what was happening.”

Grenn enters the room, his cell phone still in hand.

“I’ve just spoken with Lord Davos. He says that King Stannis has control of Winterfell but that Ramsey Snow escaped as the castle was being taken. He believes that Ramsey was behind the hired guns in your apartment—he’s sent people after all of the King’s most useful men.”

Sansa reaches for Jon’s hand and squeezes it tightly, having heard the best news she could hope for in their circumstances.

“And what about Roose Bolton?” she asks, not wanting to get too excited only to later be disappointed.

“He’s dead, his head is on a spike along the castle walls.”

Smiling, she hugs Jon, taking great care not to disturb his wound.

“Thank the gods,” Sansa says, true relief flooding through her for the first time in years. “We’re going home Jon, we’re finally going home!”

\--

It takes several weeks to safely make the arrangements for Jon and her to travel north. Sansa doesn’t make any further contact with Petyr, choosing to take the battery out of her cell phone and cut up all the credit cards in Alayne Stone’s name, not wanting him to have any means of finding her again. She knows that Petyr must have sent people out to look for her, Sansa shudders at the thought of being found by Lothar Brune or any of Petyr’s other henchmen, but no one appears at their doorstep.

Sam lets them stay in his spare room, offering to sleep on the couch so that Sansa can have his bed but she politely declines, assuring him several times that she doesn’t mind sleeping in the same bed as Jon. Eventually understanding dawns on him and he blushes a very bright shade of magenta. Every night after that he proceeds to make a big show of going to bed—to give them time alone, she figures.

During those few weeks when Sansa had been actively spying on Lord Baelish she would meet up with Jon at his apartment and they would spend several delicious hours with each other, kissing and pressing their bare skin together. No one had ever gone down on her until Jon, it was the kind of thing that ladies at court whispered about, that this or that knight wouldn’t do it. Joffrey certainly hadn’t. But when Jon had kissed his way over her hips and her belly, when he had spread her legs and licked her nub through the fabric of her panties, she had wanted him to stay there, wanted to force his head between her legs until she was positively weak from pleasure.

Sansa had never had that kind of privacy with a boy, even when she had lived in the Red Keep. Her father had set limitations on how late she could be out with the prince and once he’d been murdered Sansa had been under Queen Cersei’s watchful eye. Joffrey had humiliated her and threatened all manner of vile things, but his mother had reminded him that she would become markedly less valuable if he took her to bed, that Sansa would be all but worthless if she was no longer a maid.

Which was how, at eighteen, Sansa finds herself desperate to lie with Jon but dismayed at the idea of telling him the truth. It was plain that he wanted her, that much she knew, but Jon was forever apprehensive about allowing Lord Davos or anyone else important to find out about them. King Stannis would likely want to arrange a match for her and they both knew it wouldn’t be to a minor northern banner man, no matter how loyal.

Sansa slips inside the spare room, having changed into a sheer, silken nightgown. It’s a pale, rosy pink and one of the thin straps has fallen off her shoulder. She’s glad that she thought to pack it. Several weeks ago she had prepared a bag in case they had to leave in a hurry—Sansa had left it at Jon’s and Grenn had returned the bag to her when he went back to the apartment to take care of the remaining evidence.

Jon is already changed for bed. He has his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders lean and wonderfully pronounced. Sansa comes around to where he’s sitting, her hands finding his hair, carding her fingers through it while he leans his forehead against her stomach.

“This is nice,” he says, his hand curving around her hip. 

His thumb draws slow circles over her hipbone before his hand cups her ass through the delicate fabric.

“I packed it just for you,” Sansa replies, forcing him onto his back.

Her hair forming a curtain around their faces, she leans down and bites at his lower lip, her legs straddling either side of him.

“Gods, you’re sexy,” Jon says, sliding his hands under the hem of her nightgown. 

He reaches up to pull down the straps, his expression positively wolfish, but Sansa swats his hands away, pinning them both above his head.

“You don’t get to touch,” she says, taking her weight off him long enough to remove her panties.

With only the thin material of his boxers between them Sansa can feel everything. She places one of her hands on Jon’s chest to brace herself, feeling the firm planes of sinew beneath his skin, the arch of his hipbones beneath her fingertips as she grinds her hips against his. When she pulls his boxers down his legs, taking him in hand and rubbing herself against him, he practically growls.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice deeper and more gravely than she’s ever heard it. “Fuck, I can feel how wet you are.”

Jon arches his hips toward her, rubbing against the bud of her sex and making her squeeze her eyes shut from how good it feels. There’s more than heat in her lower belly, there’s a molten tingling that curls through her spine and settles between her legs, her skin flushed and overly sensitive from the feel of it.

She leans down and kisses him long and slow, savoring the press of their lips together and the way he runs his tongue along her lower lip, just the hint of teeth, soft and firm all at once. Sansa pulls back just slightly, her breathing coming in heavy gulps.

“I’ve never done this before,” she whispers. “But I want it to be with you.”

Jon’s expression is one of awe, like he can hardly believe the words she’s spoken.

“My sweet girl, I can make you feel so good,” he says, cupping her cheek, his thumb softly brushing over her lip.

Sansa pulls the nightgown over her head, her hair covering her breasts and falling down her back. Jon rubs his hands all over her body, brushing her sides, curling around her hip and feeling along her inner thighs, his fingers tugging at her nipples. She reaches down and takes him in hand, watching as the muscles in his stomach shiver beneath her touch. Sansa has touched him here before but now he feels impossibly hard, sighing and closing his eyes as she strokes him, his hands squeezing her hips tightly.

Holding herself slightly above him, Jon takes her hand and guides his cock inside her. She’s so slick that, at first, Sansa doesn’t feel any discomfort, only a slight pinching as he slowly works his way in. Jon takes both her hands, squeezing them and letting her hold onto him for support while she gradually sinks down on his cock. It takes time, but once their hips are flush with one another he groans and brings her hand up to kiss it.

“ _Sansa_ , gods, you’re so tight,” he says, putting stress on the syllables of her name.

She tries to move her hips but it’s too much too quickly, making her wince and curl her nails into the sheets, but Jon encourages her to go slowly, to only do what feels good. Sansa starts out by rocking up and down on him very gradually, but then there is pleasure where before she felt pain.

“Oh,” she sighs, shivering as Jon circles her bud with his fingers. “Oh, keep doing that.”

Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever felt this good before. She has touched herself on her own, usually by herself at night, her panties kicked around her ankles, but this is different. She hadn’t known what it would feel like to have him inside her and circling her clit at the same time and it feels so perfect she can hardly think straight.

“Ah, that’s it sweetling, doesn’t that feel good?” Jon asks, but Sansa can hardly make out his words.

Surely she must be hurting him with the way she’s moving, but then each of her muscles fills with tension and all she can do is bite down on his shoulder and whimper against his skin. Just as her surroundings are returning to her Sansa feels Jon clutch her even more closely.

“Baby, I’m going to come,” he bites out, his hands digging into her hips.

Rocking against him, she says, “It’s alright, I’m on the pill.”

Jon shudders and bucks up against her, his body tense as a bowstring as he empties himself inside her. He holds her close against him, her hair covering them both like a shield to the outside world while, his breathing slowly returning to normal while his breath mingling with hers. Sansa brushes his hair out of his eyes and slowly kisses her way along his cheek. Jon is still inside her but she doesn’t want him to move, she wants to hold on to this moment for as long as possible.

Eventually she crawls off of him, feeling his arms come around her. Their foreheads pressed together, he gives her the softest, most open smile she’s ever seen from him. Sansa can’t help but smile back, her legs entangled with his, the both of them in each other’s arms.


End file.
